


the pack gathers

by stxrks



Series: wolves of the north [2]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Alternate Universe - Dark, F/F, F/M, Lord Stoneheart, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-18
Updated: 2020-12-18
Packaged: 2021-03-10 17:42:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,723
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28141092
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stxrks/pseuds/stxrks
Summary: "It’s an awful thing, isn’t it?” Margaery says, her voice low but steady, “to be in love."---A continued AU in which the Stark children are darker than most, but are fallen in love with anyway.
Relationships: Arya Stark/Gendry Waters, Jon Snow/Ygritte, Meera Reed/Bran Stark, Sansa Stark/Margaery Tyrell, Theon Greyjoy/Robb Stark
Series: wolves of the north [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1931014
Comments: 10
Kudos: 126





	the pack gathers

**Author's Note:**

> The end of exams means one thing and that is me (FINALLY) rooting out this old google doc, filling in the blanks and finishing this piece .... at 3 a.m. Oops.

Ygritte has bedded a couple of stray Crows, and slain a greater number. All the same, she had thought. Dull, southern greenboys. 

Jon Snow wasn’t like that.

She nearly had him as a prisoner, sword at his throat, when he had kicked her, knocking her off balance. He had disarmed her with ease and had her in chains in a matter of seconds. He stabbed his sword through the heart of her fellow Wildling with Ygritte’s own blade. There was something animalistic in the way he had dug the blade into the boy’s heart, something more reminiscent of a creature than a man.

He drags her in chains through the bitter snow, after ridding of her male companion so easily, and she knows all too well what kind of intentions he has with her. “You know,” she snarls, “last time a crow tried to have his way with me against my will, he got his cock chopped off.”

Jon Snow turns to look at her, a smile on his face. Not the kind of smile she welcomes. It’s cold and hard and makes her shiver. “Impressive story,” he says. “But I’m not a Crow. Not anymore. And I want force you into anything. I won’t need to.”

She snorts and rolls her eyes at his confidence. “So what are you planning to do to me? Drag me south to be a stupid southern Lady?”

“Not really,” he responds. He stops shortly, pulls on the chains that he’s fastened her hands with and she stumbles slightly, crashing into him. “You’re right in that I have to go South. Avenge my father. I don’t think there’ll be time for you to be much of a Lady.”

She glares up at him, hating how tall he is. “So why am I here?”

He smiles again, still as cruel as before, but this time with something almost fond in it. “You’re the first woman to treat me like that. All the girls south of the wall are frightened of me. You’ll make for a good change.”

“They’ll kill you,” she points out. “The rest o’ the Crows. They don’t like deserters, so they don’t.”

He shrugs offhandedly. “They can try.” A strong gust of wind sweeps over time and against her will, Ygritte shivers. He looks almost concerned. 

“You’re cold,” he comments. 

“Aye,” she agrees angrily. “I lost my coat trying to get away from you bastards.”

His eyes narrow at the last word, and Ygritte shivers again, although not from the cold this time. He looks at her for an uncomfortable second, then says, “here,” and takes off his own cloak and fastens it around her shoulders. It’s a welcome respite from the cold.

“You wear it well,” he mutters and runs a gloved hand across her cheek. Again, she shivers, neither from the cold leather against her cheek, or from the fear of his sharpened sword, but rather an unwelcome feeling of warmth that’s made itself known in her belly. 

She wonders how many of her people would have ended up dead had she succeeded in capturing him.

\----

“Check on Grey Wind,” Robb orders Theon, halfway through the meal. It’s a dismal wedding meal, Theon thinks, especially considering a King is in attendance. He nods and slips out through a side door, making his way to the kennels guided by the sounds of barking. Grey Wind seems happy enough to see him, and allows Theon to ruffle his head, which is more than can be said for most people that come across the Direwolf. He can still hear a faint trace of the music emanating from the wedding, just about drowned out by Grey Wind’s happy barks. 

“Theon?” says a familiar voice and Theon turns in amazement, scarcely believing his ears. She’s gotten a few inches taller and her hair only falls to her shoulders but it’s clearly her. 

“Arya?” he says in amazement. “What are you - “

“We heard there was a wedding on,” she says curtly. “So Gendry and I made a detour.” It’s only then that Theon notices the boy standing near her. His face gives him away as being within a year of Arya’s own age, yet is taller and muscular than most grown men Theon knows. He’s also staring at Arya with a look of reverence and adoration, that only reminds Theon of the way he himself feels about Robb. 

He wonders if the youngest Stark girl realizes her companion is in love with her.

“Is Grey Wind in there?” she says fondly and undoes the latch on the kennel, ignoring Theon’s feeble protests. The door swings open and the Direwolf bounds towards her with ease. She turns to Gendry. “Come with me. I need to find my mother and my broth - “

Her words are cut off by the unmistakable sound of a latch being drawn on the door. She frowns. “What was that?”

A faint tune starts up in the hall, one eerily familiar to Theon, though he can’t quite place it. The boy, who Arya had carelessly introduced as Gendry, frowns and Arya turns a ghostly white. 

“I know that song,” she says fearfully and before Theon has time to ask her anything further, the screaming begins.

\---

Ygritte has been Jon Snow’s captive for nearly a week when they reach Castle Black. 

It’s a miserable affair among the Night’s Watch. They ogle at Ygritte as if they’ve never seen a woman - which some of them probably haven’t in years, but are quick to stare at the ground when Jon catches them at it. He’s relieved her of her chains, trusting her to be clever enough not to run away when she’s defenceless and overpowered. On instinct, she reaches for a bow that’s not on her back anymore, wanting nothing more than to shoot these stupid little Crows. She wonders if Jon Snow will ever give her back her bow. Probably not. 

He’s led to her a small room that’s to be theirs for the duration of their stay. There’s a single cot in the room, and Ygritte hates herself for despairing when Jon orders his men to deliver a second. 

They’ve been in Castle Black for only two nights, and Ygritte is realising her initial gratitude for the lumpy stew and scratchy bedding is short lived. She’s bored, she thinks. She needs her bow in hand, an enemy in her sight, a warm drink with her fellow Wildlings to finish the day with. 

She’s voiced this boredom to Jon multiple times in the past couple of days, but he’s been dismissive of her plight. Instead he spends his time combing through scrawled letters from further south, rumours of sightings of his remaining family.

“I just thought,” she remarks from her cot, “that being captured by the great Jon Snow would offer a little more excitement. All this letter reading - you’re as soft as the rest o’ the southerners.” She glances at him out of the corner of her eye, hoping her attempt to provoke him has succeeded. She may as well be a flea buzzing around the room for all the attention he’s paying her. He’s hunched over his letters in a peculiar way - shoulders bent, breaths laboured. She’s no fool. She knows he’s been made aware of some kind of news - be it good or bad, she’s none the wiser.

She clears her throat uncertainly.

He finally looks at her. “Stay here,” he orders. “I need - I need to send a raven to my family.”

She props herself up so she’s resting on her elbows. “Good or bad?”

His dark eyes flash at her, like a predator eyeing its prey, and she unwillingly shivers. “I need to go home,” he remarks curtly. “We leave in the morning.”

He departs the room quickly, and Ygritte sighs, left with her own thoughts to occupy her. She busies herself with fantasies of a new bow, carved by her own hand, arched and strong, when she hears approaching footsteps. She finds herself glad of the company, when she stills. Those footsteps do not belong to Jon. Nor do they belong to his sweet steward, or stout friend, or even his faithful wolf, all of whom have recently made her acquaintance. The door lies on its hinge, and Ygritte curses the gods above for the circumstances she finds herself in, as the door is nudged open.

The man at the door has a leer on him, an ugly short of thing that matches his crooked nose. His remaining hair is unkempt and oily, his stature bowed. When he speaks, his voice matches his unbecoming appearance.

“Lord Snow has forgotten to lock his door,” he rasps, his grin widening, showing blackened teeth. “Gone off to send his pretty little ravens and left his pretty little wilding unguarded.”

Ygritte clutches her fists, heart hammering. This is nothing new, she’s had men try to take advantage of her before. They all ended up cockless. Of course, that was when she had her weapons at hand, when she could appropriately defend herself.

She curses Jon Snow for stealing her weapons, leaving her defenseless to this lout.

“Don’t you dare touch me,” she snarls. Maybe she can hold out against this one, she thinks. He’s not that big, and has no visible muscle. 

The flash of silver she sees by his waist, when he uncurls his cloak, has her second-guessing that.

“Just a little taste,” he mutters. “Been so long since I’ve seen a pretty girl. Lord Snow can do as he pleases, can run off with wildling whores, because everyone is scared of him, but oh no, not me. A wolf doesn’t scare a man, no it doesn’t.”

He reaches for her pathetically, and Ygritte growls, and shoves at his gaunt hand before he can grope her breast, and his leer turns to a frown. 

“Don’t make this hard,” he snaps. As he speaks, he unsheathes his sharpened dagger, draws it up to eye level and points. She stumbles back to the bed, inching away from the dagger in his wobbly grasp. “Take off Lord Snow’s little cloak now. I’m sure you’re prettier without it. I’m sure Lord Snow won’t mind sharing his whores. I’m sure - ”

Whatever the third statement was is lost as the man speaking stills. Eyes glaze over, and blood dribbles from his slack-jawed mouth. His dagger clatters to the floor.

From behind, Jon Snow withdraws his bloodied sword from the dead man’s back.

“Did he touch you?” Jon demands.

“He tried,” she mutters, and swats at his outstretched hand he offers to help her to her feet. “I’m fine.”

“A quick death was a greater mercy than was warranted,” Jon snarls. “One day, the Watch will stop accepting these beaten crooks and rapists into its midst. I will make sure of it.”

“If I had my weapons,” Ygritte snaps, “it would o’ been a fairer fight.”

She’s startled to see just how much she has struck a chord in his cold demeanour. “You’re right,” he says hollowly. “You could have - I left you weaponless. I would have been at fault, for whatever may have transpired.”

He picks up the dagger from the dead man’s side, and silently holds it out to her.

It feels strange, accepting the weapon of a man who tried to have his way with her, and now lies dead on the floor, his blood still wet, eyes still open. But when she closes her fist around the dagger’s hilt, it feels right.

“Not afraid I’ll slit your throat during the night,” she smirks, glad her voice is unwavering.

“I’ll take my chances,” he says, and she sees a smile blossom on his features. It’s a genuine smile at that, the kind that reaches his dark eyes, makes her feel like his partner in the hunt rather than his helpless prey.

\---

The Brotherhood are smaller in numbers than the last time Gendry had encountered them. He recognises all the old faces, but there is a notable absence. “Where’s Beric?” 

“He gave his life,” Thoros replies flatly. “His final life. For his.” He gestures towards the figure at the end of the cave who Gendry had not seen until now. It’s a man, he realizes, and not a man at the same time. Gendry has never been one for religion, but he can’t help but think that this must be the sort of face the Stranger wears. The only sign of life of the man is the wolf that rests by his foot. He’s seated on a makeshift throne, and is unmoving. “They call him Lord Stoneheart.”

Arya’s expression is unreadable. “This is why you sought me out.”

Thoros nods and bows his head. “Yes, my Lady.”

Theon gives a choked sob and rushes towards the figure, who Gendry has never seen before but can easily guess the identity of. He has also since the nature of Theon’s past relationship with the slain King and is hardly surprised when Theon kneels before the man.

“Robb,” he mutters. 

“Stand up,” King Robb replies in a tone that’s befitting of a King, not a lover. Gendry feels Arya stiffen beside him before she continues to approach her undead brother, and the wolf at his feet.

“I think we may have mixed up Direwolves,” she says calmly and the dead King cracks a smile that doesn’t extend to his eyes.

“She saved my life,” he says. “Fished my corpse from the river Walder Frey threw me into.”

Arya nods. “And if it weren’t for Grey Wind we would never have been able to seek this lot out.” Her voice is shaky, and Gendry’s reminded of one of the first nights on their trek north when he felt she had actually begun to trust him and had curled into his side and slept, a look of innocence on her face. He wouldn’t have placed her for a cold blooded killer if he had only seen her in that moment, and he wouldn’t in this one either.

“Let’s go home,” she says to her brother softly, takes his hands in her own. She barely comes up to his chest, even with the extra height she’s gained since Gendry first met her. “Once we’ve dealt with our enemies.

This time, the King’s smile does reach his eyes. 

\---

The pair of them reach Winterfell just as the night settles, and Margaery is glad of it. Even this cold, looming stronghold of the North is preferable to another cold night on horseback. She glances at her companion, wondering if Sansa’s icy demeanour might be prone to melting at the sight of home.

It is, she realises with a start. It’s not the kind of softness that a stranger might pick up on, but after months of travel and the strangest courtship Margaery has partaken in, she’s come to know Sansa well. The unbidden quirk of her mouth, the loosening of her normally clenched firsts, the ease by which she breathes. 

Sansa Stark, for all her regal coldness, is glad to be home. It’s a thought that makes Margaery smile. 

When she lowers her hood, her guards bow in recognition and welcome her home. “Princess Sansa,” the tallest of them says. “What an honour to welcome you home. Prince Rickon is still holding court. We’ll take you and your - your companion to him, immediately.”

Sansa takes Margaery’s hand in her own, and Margaery’s chest flutters. “Thank you, Ser,” she says. “I should be glad of the chance to hold court with my brother. I can find him myself. If you would be so kind to escort my Lady to my chambers, I would be most appreciative.”

The guard bows, and Margaery blushes, wondering if the man has grasped the intricacies of her and Sansa’s relationship, but he seems unbothered by its strange nature. He barely flinches when Sansa grabs Margaery by the chin, tilting her gaze so she’s staring directly at her lover, and with lips of ice, places a soft kiss on Margaery's own.

“Wait up for me,” Sansa mutters, against Margaery.

“Always,” Margaery promises.

\---

In all Ygritte’s wildest fancies, she could never have dreamt a castle as mighty as this one. 

“This is where you grew up?” she says to Jon in wonder. “It’s no wonder you’re so soft.”

He frowns at the jibe but doesn’t rise to it. Instead he opens the doors and nods his head at her. “After you.” She’s free to run, to make her way back home in the literal sense, but she’s still his prisoner, she thinks. Although, her chains aren’t made of steel anymore, she’s bound to this man in a way that scares even her.

Despite all the grandeur of the castle, the Lord that sits on at the head of the table the pair of them and Ghost are ushered towards is just a boy. Curly haired and wild looking, he can’t be any older than twelve or so.

“Rickon,” Jon says, warmth in his voice that surprises Ygritte. The boy smiles and leaps over the table, paying no heed to the chides of his Maester. 

“I missed you,” the younger boy says fiercely. “You should never have left Winterfell.”

“I know,” Jon says, almost sadly. Ygritte’s so used to his callousness and brazen nature, that this takes her by surprise. He doesn’t seem to be in a hurry to introduce her so she coughs loudly. 

Jon glances at her as if he’d forgotten she existed. “Rickon, this is Ygritte. Ygritte, this is my brother Rickon and our Maester, Maester Luwin.”

Rickon scowls at her. She scowls back. 

“Who is she?” Rickon demands. 

“A wildling I stole,” Jon says absently. “In my defence, she tried to steal me first.

Ygritte rolls her eyes, because technically he’s right, but she doesn’t have a decent argument to counter him.

“Where’s Bran?” Jon asks his younger brother. “Is he resting? How are his legs - “

Rickon shakes his head. “Bran’s not here,” he says. “A lot has happened since you left. He glares at Ygritte again. “I’ll speak to you in private.”

Jon shrugs. “Speak to me here,” he says. “She won’t betray me. She’s too clever.”

“I see,” says Rickon. He glances at his Maester, as if silently asking for guidance. 

Maester Luwin nods at him. “Go on, my Prince.” The title momentarily throws Ygritte until she remembers what Jon told her of his brother turned King.

Rickon clears his throat. Although he has the look of a boy, Ygritte feels like he’s as hardened as a man. Or at least what counts as a man south of the wall. “Before I begin,” he says to Maester Luwin, “would you fetch her?”

Maester Luwin nods. “Both of them?”

“I don’t see why not,”Rickon says. Maester Luwin bows respectfully and retreats.

“You know about father,” Rickon says.

Jon nods. “I do."

Rickon continues. “Do you know about the wedding?”

“Bits and pieces,” Jon says. “We heard rumours on the way here - they were true, weren’t they? Your mother and Robb are dead?” His voice breaks on the name Robb and Ygritte feels something swell up inside her. Even if he did kidnap her, she’s somewhat in love with him and she hates herself for it.

Rickon nods then bites on his lip. “It’s complicated,” he admits. “Do you know of the Lord of Light?”

“I’ve heard the name,” Jon says. “But what has that - “

Rickon holds up a hand to cut across. “He has worshippers here too,” he says. “They’re capable of certain ... feats” He pauses. “Power to bring back the dead.”

Ygritte can see Jon piecing together what his brother has just told him. When he speaks, the hope is unmistakble. “Who did - “

“Robb,” Rickon says tersely. “Arya found him. They’re on their way here now,” he says. “She sent me a raven. They’re going to kill every last Frey and Bolton, then they’re coming home.”

“It was strange,” a woman's voice says from the door, and Ygritte turns. This girl has red hair too, but hers is softer, more muted. She’s been kissed by candlelight, not proper fire. There’s another woman standing beside her, this one brunette. The two are holding hands, in a way that suggests love that is more than sisterly. “We’re all finding our way home." She smile wryly. "Hello Jon.”

“Sansa,” Jon says, voice cracked. “I thought you were - “

“Held captive?” she laughs icily. “I was. I killed the King and stole his wife and came home.” She embraces Jon. 

“Stealing beautiful women is a family habit,” Jon comments wryly, as the other woman curtsies prettily and introduces herself as Margaery. Ygritte wrinkles her nose, but decides not to rise to Jon’s bait. She hopes he doesn’t expect her to start curtsying like a simpering southern fool. 

Instead of picking a fight, she takes in her surroundings, marveling at the magnificence of the room she’s found herself in. These southerners know how to treat themselves. 

She feels a gentle touch to her arm, and is surprised to see it’s Margaery, the woman who had accompanied Jon’s sister. Jon and his siblings are engaged in conversation, and are paying their women no mind. 

“Are you alright?” Margaery asks softly, her eyes alight with concern. But Ygritte knows better, knows how these Southerners like to twist words and fake kindness to better serve themselves.

“O’ course I’m alright,” she snaps. “Why wouldn’t I be?” Her sharp tone probably isn’t warranted, but she can’t help it. She’s itching for a good fight with someone, it’s in her nature, but even she knows better than to pick a proper brawl with Jon, who’s been her only company for the past few months. It’s no wonder she’s on edge. 

Margaery stares at her, unflinching. She’s tougher than she looks, Ygritte realises with a start. “It’s an awful thing, isn’t it?” Margaery says, her voice low but steady, “to be in love.”

—

Gendry finds himself spending a lot of time with Theon Greyjoy in the days that follow Arya’s reunion with her brother. Theon’s not bad company, Gendry realises quickly. He’s handy with his bow and doesn’t mind teaching Gendry a few tricks. Gendry’s never been one for archery - his brute strength lends itself more to swords and axes, but there’s an odd sense of fun in letting an arrow fly, a firm sense of satisfaction when it hits a target. 

Shooting arrows with Theon is much more preferable than spending time with Arya and her undead brother, Gendry decides. King Robb, Lord Stoneheart, whatever he’s elected to call himself, gives Gendry the shivers. The ivory white skin, the dead grey eyes, the way the man never breathes. 

“They used to be blue,” Theon says to him one day, randomly, as the pair of them walk together. They had left a steady trail of dead enemies in their wake over the past week, and Gendry’s uneasy enough, without this unwanted conversation. 

“What do you mean?” he asks, although he has an odd feeling he already knows what his companion referring to.

“Robb’s eyes,” Theon said, quietly. Not that Arya or her brother could hear them anyway, for the pair were entirely consumed in their own plotting. 

Gendry nods, and rests what he hopes is a comforting hand on Theon’s shoulder. He’s trying to say a lot more with the gesture than he knows how to properly word. That he’s already guessed the nature of Theon’s relationship with the undead King, that he’s in no way condemning such a relationship, that he’s seen all sorts in Fleabottom, and two men sharing such a companionship is hardly worth commenting upon after a lifetime in the slums. 

“It seems ridiculous,” Theon says with a half-smirk that seems reminiscent of another man, from another life, “to have him returned to me from death itself, and still complain. But they were such a lovely shade of blue.”

Gendry doesn’t know what to say to that, but he finds himself freezing up when he notices their little group has stopped, just at the entrance of a dingy roadside tavern, and there are two pairs of grey eyes resting directly upon him.

“It’s getting late,” Arya tells him, with an odd look, there’s something strange in her tone, something wild. “We’ll stay here, tonight.” It feels almost foreign to have her stare focused so keenly in him, to have her address him so directly. These past few weeks, she’s been so caught up in her brother and their shared revenge, that she’s barely spared Gendry a glance.

He loathes the part of himself that craves her attention so intensely. 

However, it’s the stare of the Undead King which unsettles Gendry the most, and he realises a little too late that he is focused directly on Gendry’s hand which is stupidly, still rested upon Theon’s shoulder.

Gendry lets his arm fall limply to the side, wondering if there’s any point in saying anything, when a twang of an arrow whooshes past him, and lands in a tree. 

It’s only a mere second, before Theon can unsheathe his arrows, before Gendry’s fist is curled around he ax, that Arya and Robb are on the attack. 

Arya’s Needle slices through men like paper, and Robb’s Ice is plunged into the hearts of several soldiers, who die with a look of terror in their eyes. 

There’s only an old innkeeper and one patron inside, who Arya ends up killing - “We don’t need them asking any questions,” she says shortly, and really, Gendry thinks dully, what’s two more dead bodies on top of several hundred?

In the other taverns they’ve stayed in, Gendry has either slept in his own room, or shared with Theon, who mutters in his sleep as if he’s suffering terrible nightmares, so Gendry is more than surprised when Arya beckons him to join her in the chamber she’s selected for herself.

He follows her wordlessly, and feels like his body is on fire with want, with the want that’s been driving him crazy on this whole, awful expedition. He wonders if he could say no to her, if she tries to lay with him tonight, if his tongue would manage the word, when his body is crying out for her.

When they’re alone in the chamber, she kisses Gendry, hard and proper, hands roaming all over him, biting on his lip hard enough to draw blood, leaving him panting and hot. 

She cups his face in her hands and stares at him with a piercing intensity, the kind that would make a man whimper, and she says, “Never leave me.”

“Never,” he promises. 

—- 

Bran can see the confusion and fear in Meera’s eyes, can see that she’s none the wiser of what just occurred. But she knows better than to ask, of course she does. 

She’s a clever enough sort, when she wants to be. Not clever enough to save that brother of hers, but such is life. If anything, Bran’s rather thankful for Jojen’s untimely death. It’s rendered Meera more vulnerable, more alone and desperate for him to reciprocate her feelings.

It’s an easy enough farce to play. A quick kiss, a smile that didn’t seem overly forced, anything to keep her coming back for more. Anything to keep her dependant on him.

That suits him fine. He’s dependent on her. For now at least. 

She helps him get comfortable in this cave - damn these useless legs of his - and he closes his eyes, and makes use of his newfound power.

It’s not the way the Three-Eyed Raven wanted him to use his newfound gifts. The dreaded thing had all sorts of notions- peace and prosperity in the realm and a shared existence among all beings. No battles, no victory, no power. The Raven had wanted to take over Bran in body and mind, and enact his ridiculous desires, but that simply wouldn’t do. 

Despite the protests of the weaker being that shares his conscience, Bran chooses to visit a very specific figure. 

Bran speaks with a voice that’s both his own, and also the voice of a creature older than the world around him, that is submitting further every second to Bran’s will. 

“Hello,” he says calmly. “I’d like to propose an alliance.”

The Night King nods his head, and a smile creeps upon his strange, dead face. 

**Author's Note:**

> Ideally, I'd like to wrap this series up with one or two more pieces, if my brain decides to cooperate with the writing process. This AU is just so much fun to write, and I'd love to hear what you guys think about it and what you'd be interested in seeing in future installments. My tumblr is stxrks and my inbox is always open for any and all Stark related chats.


End file.
